


this is a box of sweet things to close out the year

by Euny_Sloane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Bickering, Chanukah, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Holidays, M/M, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21695071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane
Summary: This is a collection of tiny ficlets written based on @drawlight 's ineffable advent (31 days of ineffables).  Aziraphale and Crowley feature most prominently, there is no particular narrative order, though by and large they are all set post-canon.If you're looking for Chanukah content, check out Gift (posted as of this addition to the summary) and Warmth (to be posted soon).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Viscum album

“What IS that up there?”

“That’s a tree, dear boy. It has… twigs, and leaves and things. There used to be many more of them around but I didn’t think you’d forget them.”

“Really, angel. I know what a tree is. Does it have branches too? Oh, or a trunk?”

Aziraphale huffed, rosy cheeks puffing out a cloud of steam in the brisk air. 

Crowley tried to be irritated, failing miserably at the sight of wind reddened lips, pursed in irritation. He took half a step back to embrace his husband, slim fingers finding traction at the edge of a worn pocket opening, and used his free hand to guide blue mittened hand to point at the strange puff of leaves in a largely bare oak tree. “That is what I mean, up there, not the tree, you nitwit.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Aziraphale, “oh I haven’t seen that for quite some time. That’s Viscum album.” 

“In English, for… for my sake.”

“Mmmm. It’s mistletoe, of course. It’s a parasite actually, and it feeds off the life in lovely old trees like these. Looks quite remarkable - see the ball shape, like an ornament? That’s why you still find ball-shaped mistletoe ornaments in the shops sometimes, although obviously those aren’t real mistletoe, or not really, maybe just the leaves sometimes, though that’s dratted expensive - and terribly risky. The stuff’s awfully toxic, although in the good old days, I had a friend who insisted that nothing was better for communing with the divine and…” somewhere during this exposition, Crowley had rotated around his own personal source of warmth and light to bring himself closer to those chapped lips, staring intently. 

“Mmm, mhm,” he murmured, and Aziraphale grew pinker still as he noticed. 

“Ah, yes, well, so I don’t recall exactly how they prepared it, and it could still make you awfully sick if…”

“You haven’t mentioned the most important part about it.”

“No, no I’m sure I have. I referenced the toxicity and the proper name, and the growth habit and…”

“That’s not it,” said Crowley, and, leaning close enough to feel the warm fog-breath puff along his cheeks, put an end to the lecture. For once, Aziraphale didn’t much mind being cut off halfway through, and didn’t even point out that they were standing several feet away from the botanical specimen in question.


	2. Snow, or Aziraphale is a right bastard and Crowley deserves him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: snow

“Don’t you dare don’t you dare don’t you DARE. Don’t you dare throw that at me it will get all over my nice jacket”

“Who says I would aim for your jacket, darling? When your hair looks so nice dusted in snow?”

“Aziraphaaaale! You’ll mess it up and it took ages to get it looking this good.”

“Mmmm,” said the angel, eyes steely, and Crowley recalled that his insistently soft love was also a veteran of the first war and had borne witness to many others, while he, himself, had spent eons slithering out of notice. 

“You could always try to defend yourself, you know…” offered Aziraphale, tossing the perfectly formed snowball lightly up and down a few times in one hand, grin broad and eyes steely. “…or you could take it back, what you said about my coat?”


	3. Nutcracker, or Acts of Service Crowley Strikes Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nutcracker

“Why can’t you just buy them shelled like everyone else does?”

“They’re not as good and you know it. Besides, they had bags and bags of these at the market.”

“Yes, of course they did, because nobody ever buys them anymore.”

“I’m sure that cannot possibly be the case. It wouldn’t make any sense for the stores to keep stocking them. And the shelled nuts never taste the same.”

Crowley knows better than to call Aziraphale out for pouting. It took weeks of plying with pastries and an especially fine first edition of Salome to mollify his ethereal partner the last time he used the word. So he just whines instead “It’s so much work this way.”

“I know, dear boy. But you don’t mind, do you?” Aziraphale’s eyes have gone wide and wanting, asking him for the thousandth time ‘will you do this for me, can you show me your love this way, can you quietly bear one more inconvenience for my sake?’ and Crowley, as if hypnotized into acquiescence, accepts the proferred bag of nuts and grips the handles of the shiny silver nutcracker. “You wouldn’t mind opening them, would you? For me?”

“Ah…um, yes. For, um, ngk…. *gulp* you.”

image  
And in response, the angel just smiles, and wiggles a little, and purposefully makes not one comment about how Crowley’s cheeks suddenly match the nose of a particularly famous reindeer.


	4. Cranberry Sauce, or Aziraphale is just as wicked as Crowley in His Own Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: cranberry
> 
> Credit for inspiration goes to focusfixated’s Pistachio, which is utterly delicious and available to read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926160

“This looks dreadful. Why do they eat it?” he asked, with prim disgust. 

“I think it goes with roast meat.”

“You mean a roast dinner?”

“No, not like roast beef. Roast fowl. Turkey, usually.” 

“Goodness. Why?” 

“I think it’s traditional, for Thanksgiving.” 

“Oh, one of those colonial holidays - the one about gratitude and enemies coming together?” Aziraphale brightened at the thought. 

“No, angel, I don’t think so. It’s a basket of lies. The holiday’s got nothing to do with the American colonists - just a way to make them feel less guilty for killing off whole civilizations with their germs and their greed.” 

“Oh,” replied Aziraphale, disappointed. “One of yours, then?

“One of… one of mine? What about ‘on our side?’ One of mine. I tell you…”

“Fine, fine, don’t get your knickers in a twist. You know what I meant. Was it Hell’s doing, this holiday?” 

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Colonization is the kind of nastiness humans tend to think up on their own. And they usually find their own ways to sanitize it later.” It’s an old rant, and Crowley already knows he’s preaching to the choir.

Aziraphale took another spoonful of the ruby conserve, observing it in the light before tucking it neatly between his lips and then sliding the spoon back out. He mused “I’d consider it with duck. That could work. Why don’t they have it with duck?”

“Let them eat cake? Really, Asssiraphale,” hissed Crowley, pupils blown wide and openly staring at his dearest friend. 

“Ah, yes. Hm.” conceded his bastard angel, who then rolled over the spoon to neatly lick the last bits off the curved back, and if he noticed his companion watching every move of his tongue, gone magenta with tinned cranberry sauce, he didn’t comment. “Still, it would be nice with something rich, like duck. Something… toothsome.” he looked full on into Crowley’s eyes and continued “…something you can really bite into, wouldn’t you say? Meaty, even?” 

Crowley could only gulp, staring at that grin.


	5. Rubbing off on You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: fire

“Remind me why we’re out here again?”

“Because it’s fun!”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Fun. Hm.” He picked up the tartan flask and sat slowly unscrewing the cap and screwing it back on, staring into the middle distance. 

Crowley continued to fiddle with his pile of sticks, orienting them in a neat configuration for proper airflow. He had tried to describe what he was doing, but his angel, so curious about everything on offer in books, barely attempted to feign interest in his methodical explanation of the alchemy of fire, space, and air flow. But Aziraphale’s love for him had kept him quietly (even if not patiently) pretending interest and sipping at his flask of mulled wine, until Crowley brought out a book of matches that, one by one, were snuffed out in the winter winds. 

“Really, my darling boy, can’t you just” and he waved his hand, then gestured as if drawing something intangible up from the earth with his fingers.

Crowley sat back on his haunches, craned his neck around to look Aziraphale directly and said “You’re no fun at all.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“How wicked. I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Mmm. It must be all that… rubbing.. that’s done it.” said Aziraphale, and Crowley nearly fell off his heels onto the chilly ground, but caught himself, lit the fire with a flame extended from the tip of his fingers, rose, and turned towards Aziraphale in one fluid motion, careless of the normal functioning of mammalian hips. 

“Any rubbing in particular, angel?” he asked as he leaned forward to cup both hands in a riot of soft, tight curls, catching glints of the firelight. Fog-breath mingled between them, until it didn’t.


	6. Loud in the Library, or Crowley Actually Loves Children's Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: sleigh bells
> 
> This is in honor of one of the sweetest of Christmas books - The Polar Express, by Chris Van Allsburg. The story is lovely and the illustrations wonderful. 
> 
> I can't tell you why I placed them in Alexandria, VA, US, except it seems a not unlikely place for a diplomat's son to end up wanting to raise a kid.

A whispered argument is growing between an angel and a demon, at a public library in Alexandria - a terribly modern Alexandria, and a modern library, more glass than walls. The original Alexandria is far away, across a wide, dark ocean and a deep blue sea, and the library is farther still, back in a time only these two recall. 

An unreasonably slim person, wearing a sleek, fashionable black skirt suit and exquisitely expensive pumps clutches an armful of silver sleigh bells and a copy of a picture book. The name Allsburg is barely visible. They are trying to get an altogether rounder person in an argyle sweater vest and clashing plaid shirt to take one of the bells. 

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s for the children!”

“That does not make it less ridiculous.”

“Shh, Aziraphale. They’ll hear you!” 

“Oh come now, that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Yesss, really, it does. They can’t know that adults think that what they love is silly. It’s important. I read about that when Warlock was wee.” 

“Fine,” said the angel, accepting the bell, then with a quick motion prevented all the rest of them from clattering in glittering cacophony to the ground. “How do you know they’ll love it?”

“Because they will. It’s a wonderful book.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Warlock’s child isn’t even old enough to read! What is he doing here? What are we doing here?”

“That’s the point, darling, we’re reading it to them. Because they can’t read yet. We weren’t all born reading every language the world hadn’t invented yet.” 

“You were.”

“Beside the point.”

“And the bells?”

Crowley smiled wickedly, shining teeth-bright, “because they’re loud.”

“...and?”

“And we’re in a library, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, you. For God’s sake, give me those and I’ll help you pass them out.”


	7. Quiet Night, or Angels Can Hear Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: silent night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is very very short. The title is practically longer.

It wasn’t truly silent in the bookshop, with the soft snores emerging from a snake curled up in an unusually large, woven willow basket next to Aziraphale. The basket was supposed to be for Crowley’s new hobby, and strands of softest blue wool trailed out alongside an occasionally twitching tail.

If he listened carefully, he could hear the swish and rush of cars driving through the rain outside, and if he listened more carefully still, he could hear, or feel, the hopes and suffering of the entire neighborhood. His world was far from silent.

Still, he had a quiet night, with a good book, a warm cup of cocoa to hand, and his very own demon, drowsing nearby.


	8. Dawn Chorus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: choir
> 
> Crowley wakes up to softness and we are all just so soft.

He doesn’t have to look out the window to know that there is a soft mist rising in the back garden, and can see over the soft folds of pillowcase and bedclothes an ecstatic wash of rose across the sky and clouds. He doesn’t have to rise and go down the stairs, accompanied by the soft drag and swish of his robe against his pajamas, to know that his love arose with the birds this morning, to the glory of their dawn chorus.

Stretching his thoughts and his limbs loose from the bed, he muses. He doesn’t mind choirs, although the years when choirs in Europe only sang words that itched in his ears, inside cathedrals that burned his feet, soured him on them until Aziraphale tugged him bodily to a theater, shining with gilt, and sunk them into plush seats, as crimson as the blood that flowed unnecessarily in both of their veins.

He had spent easily half the time just watching the pulse in his companion’s neck speed up as the music crescendoed, and, unable to imagine some way that he could inspire that leaping heartbeat, resolved to tempt his closest ally and only friend to join him at as many musical performances as he could.

Later, settled with wine and nibbles, when Aziraphale enthused about the skill and immaculate timing of the choir, Crowley could only nod and murmur agreement, because at the time, he hadn’t heard a thing over the chorus of his own patiently desperate heart.

Feet on the floor, he leaned forward to snag his robe off the chair by their bed, and paused, one arm in, one arm out, as he heard the strains of Aziraphale singing downstairs. The angel refused flat out to sing for any kind of audience, only telling humans that his days in the choir were over, but on mornings like this, Crowley could sometimes hear the bell-like tones of angelic harmonies - a chorus of one - and usually singing things that the angels would think beneath them.

He shrugged into the robe the rest of the way and had hunted up precisely one sock from under the bedcovers when he heard “there was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges too” rise up from the kitchen. Crowley rather thought the heavenly host didn’t know what they were missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt stumped me for a minute, but it turned into something I really rather like and while it doesn't compare, it was nice to try to write something as thoughtful and atmospheric as @drawlight does. I recommend checking out everything they've written.


	9. Chestnuts, or Aziraphale Has Sticky Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley brings Aziraphale a treat. It is well received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: They do not actually have sex but they clearly want to. Skip this one if you're repulsed by sex or lip touching. (Actually put it that way and I think I'd say I'm repulsed by lip touching. "Lip touching" - eugh. I think I made it not gross in the fic, though).

“Angel! Where are you?” asked Crowley, striding into the bookshop, where he settled a sleek aqua shopping bag on an available stack of books. He called again, a little louder, and the shuffling noises which he heard coming from the back of the shop resolved into a crash, a muffled curse, and several heavy thumps followed by silence. 

“Aziraphale!?” asked Crowley, his own heartbeats becoming heavy thumps as he strode towards the back of the bookshop, only to stop short, in response to ill-tempered sounds emerging from behind a bookshelf. 

“Dratted omnibus editions, I tell you. Who put you on the top shelf? Well, I suppose it was me, but you shouldn’t have gone along with it,” muttered the bookshelf.

Catching his balance mid-step with a wobble, Crowley recalled a documentary with David Attenborough, who had explained how the human gait is really all about falling - take a step and fall, then another step, and fall again, always off-balance, always catching yourself. He’s had a few millennia of practice by now, more than enough time to master the art. 

But then Aziraphale rounded the corner of the not-actually-talking bookshelf. He was a right mess, curls in total disorder and catching the light, a ruffled halo in the shop’s warm lights. 

Feeling both the curve of his mouth and the pace of his heartbeat creep upwards against his will, Crowley reflected that perhaps he wasn’t half so good at the catching himself bit as he was at the falling part.

Aziraphale’s waistcoat was hitched up awkwardly on one side, shirt untucked on the opposite, and still muttering to himself, before bending to rub his knee, exposing a finger’s breadth of soft, bare waist. 

He looked up to Crowley with an irritable smile. “You startled me.” 

Crowley tried to get his footing by taking refuge in the familiar. “You do realize that your shop door was open.”

“Oh. Well. Still.”

“One doesn’t exactly knock on open shop doors.”

Aziraphale hmphed.

“More just go inside, like. Expect to be greeted by a cheery clerk with their name on a pin.”

“Crowley,” warned Aziraphale. 

“Maybe a friendly greeting. Ringing bell thing. And a place that isn’t riddled with mildew.”

Affronted, Aziraphale snapped “I have a bell. And there isn’t any mildew here!”

“Oh?”

“It’s only the odor. To keep the customers out. As you well know,” he groused. “Oh don’t look so pleased with yourself. Why are you here so early anyway, our reservations aren’t un…” and he trailed off, eyes lighting on the shopping bag by the door. “…treats?” In a moment, he was peering inside the bag and pulling out a shiny gold foil box. “Sweetmeats! Oh, you didn’t have to.”

“Clearly I did - and you prat, nobody in the whole of England calls them sweetmeats anymore. Probably the whole world.” 

“Fine. Marrons glacés, then.”

“Oh, so now your French comes back to you? How convenient.”

“You can’t possibly still be nettled about that,” Aziraphale complained, meticulously opening one crisp golden wrapper.

“No, I tend to forget all of the times you’ve nearly been discorporated.”

“Hmph!” complained Aziraphale, ready to retort, but he was already biting into a candied chestnut. The wrinkle between his eyebrows dissolved and complaint melted into pleasure "Ooo… lovely.”

“Erk.” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s eyes, which had briefly closed in rapture, popped open at the sound. “Oh, darling. These are positively scrumptious.” 

“Oh. Ah. Good, very good. I’m very goo- glad. I’m very glad,” said Crowley. He had been trying to stand at a debonair angle while watching, hooking his fingers into insufficient pockets, and though he kept glancing away, towards the ceiling or the box of chestnuts or his own shoes, his gaze returned each time to Aziraphale’s face. Who was apparently lost to pleasure as he consumed three more sugar encrusted bites. Then looked properly at Crowley. His face a landscape of thoroughly unangelic delight, eyes glinting at the sight of his friend’s discomfort.

He plucked yet another sweet from the box, unwrapped it and offered it up in soft fingers. “You really ought to try this,” and, stepping closer, slipped it in between Crowley’s lips, opened at the first brush of the candied nut.

Sticky with syrup, a crumb of chestnut somehow stuck to Crowley’s bottom lip and, barely breathing, Aziraphale reached out to brush it away. It stuck to his fingers, though, and with a darting glance at golden eyes and the morsel on his thumb, he lifted it to swipe it away with his own tongue. 

But then Crowley’s hand was on his wrist, guiding the sticky crumb to his own mouth. Aziraphale’s breath bled out in an abortive sigh as Crowley captured Aziraphale’s thumb between his teeth, scraping delicately across soft skin, sucking the morsel away.


	10. Gold and Silver, or Crowley is very ticklish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a ticklish, brooding romantic, and Aziraphale knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw tickling  
> Cw sort of nonconsensual tickling?

“Angel! Where have you gotten to? We’re down to the last three!”  
Aziraphale came around the corner into a parlor dominated by evergreens and ornament boxes. Bearing a harried expression and a glass mug of mulled cider in each hand, he asked “What’s the trouble? Can’t be bothered to put the last three up without me?”  
“Gah! C’mere, petulant angel, and just look. I want to show you one of them. It opens, see?” he said, gesturing to the hinge.   
“Oh, that is really darling, isn’t it? Does it have some kind of scene inside? Like those remarkable eggs, the ones they used to make from sugar?” and Aziraphale reached out to pluck the little ornament from Crowley as if it had been one more sweet offered in tribute.   
“It better not. Those were ghastly and you know it.” Crowley tucked his hands as far into his pockets as possible, but a keen observer would have noticed them tremble first.   
“Do you really not remember what’s inside this? How forgetfu…” Aziraphale asked, while opening the silver-hinged nutshell, until something glinted, landing on the floor with a metal ping, and rolled away. Something metal remained inside, though, glowing warm in the soft lighting of innumerable fairy lights. “How clumsy of me,” he said, and then “oh!” as he noticed a ring nestled inside the walnut, glinting gold against its walnut casing.   
“Erm.” said Crowley, eyes unable to settle, glancing at Aziraphale’s face, the ring, the floor, the path the other ring took on its journey across the floor, and back again to a face filled with wonder, eyes over-bright.   
“Ohh.”  
“So, ah, I know we’re already here and - and things,” he said, gesturing to the domestic holiday disarray, or the cottage, or perhaps the world they’d almost certainly and entirely by accident helped to save. “But, mm, well... what do you think?”  
“Oh dearest. This is for me?” Aziraphale asked, one finger laid gently on the ring as if holding it in place, or checking to see that it was tangible, a thing of this plane, the world they chose to live in, to love, to save. “Is that what fell? Is there one for you too?” and, after tucking the ring safely onto his finger and setting the ornament snapped-shut on a side table, scrambled to his knees to hunt around.   
Crowley stood awkwardly for a moment, then bent to join him but there was his love, suddenly near, kneeling in front of him with a smaller ring, held up in soft fingers, a miniature halo glowing in the firelight.   
“I found it!,” Aziraphale said,” then realizing the tableau he had made, froze, eyes wide.   
“You know,” said Crowley, coming to his rescue, “I had meant to be proposing to you,” and held out his left hand.   
“Well, dear, consider this as me returning the favor.” said Aziraphale with a wry smile, sliding the ring onto a slim finger. He accepted the other hand helping him to rise. The very same hand slid around his waist as easily as the circle of gold had around his finger, and pulled him into an embrace. “Oh my,” said Aziraphale, as he wrapped his own arms around one suddenly very verklempt demon and held him, then kissed him, until the tears had passed. 

It was hours later, when the last ornaments had been hung and the boxes and bags and hellish devices used to contain strings of fairy lights and joyful tears had all been cleared away that Crowley felt a thought creep in, like the chill he kept trying to miracle away from the bathroom floor. (This habit left their neighbors wondering how their bathroom had under floor heating with the vintage tile still in place.) As soon as he had the uncomfortable thought, he banished it and resettled himself against Aziraphale. And tried not to stare morosely into the fire.   
He wasn't terribly successful.  
Possibly because he had millennia of experience in brooding at fires while he hung about Aziraphale.   
It was silly, he was being ridiculous, everything was fine. He had taken the ring, hadn’t he? And then given him one in return? Even if he'd bought both of them himself? He resolved to say nothing at all.   
“...yes, dear?” broke into Crowley's brooding.   
"Did I say something?"  
"Only with every dratted wiggle. I've lost my place three times already," complained Aziraphale, but without any heat.   
"Oh."  
Aziraphale sighed. "What is it?"  
Crowley froze for one crucial moment. He knew "nothing" was the wrong answer to that question, having deliberately nudged many a mortal to give that reply to their partner. He'd never empathized with the saps quite so much until now.   
"Crowley," and here Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley directly. Much too directly, since he'd finally given up wearing his smoky glasses in their home. Direct appeals had failed, but when Aziraphale had started complaining that they didn't fit with the cottage's aesthetic, Crowley knew he'd lost.   
"Honestly, dear. What's bothering you?"   
"It's nothing." Dammit, thought Crowley. Damn it all to hell. It's the M25 all over again.   
"Crowley, I swear I will not rest until you tell me."  
"Neither of us need rest, angel."  
"So there is something, then."  
Crowley felt the net close in. "Or there isn't, which means you'll never rest again, because there is nothing to tell." One doesn't go from enemy without a few vestigial habits, and snakes, too, will fight if cornered. 

Aziraphale set his book down, ribbon neatly marking his place, and said "Crowley," eyes glinting in the firelight, "you know I have ways to make you talk."   
Old habits die hard. A fleeting thought of how quickly any angel could produce holy water crossed his mind, before he recalled Aziraphale's discovery from two nights prior.  
"No."  
The grin widened, anything but angelic.   
"You wouldn't."  
"Wouldn't I?"  
"You're too good."  
Aziraphale just scoffed.   
"Think of your dignity."  
He laughed openly, and Crowley resisted the contagious sound.  
"Tell me, or it's not *my* dignity that will be in question."  
“Then have mercy.”  
“I’m an angel, Crowley, I’m always merciful...” Crowley started to relax, but out of an instinct for self-preservation started to slide his feet back towards him and off of Aziraphale’s comfortable thighs.“...with humans,” and one ankle was suddenly held back by the angel’s grip.   
“So,” said Aziraphale, “what’s bothering you?”  
Crowley tried to tug his foot away in response, but he knew that Aziraphale was only soft on the outside.   
“Well, dear?” asked Aziraphale, trying to ruck Crowley’s pant leg up, and failing.   
“Look,” said Crowley.   
Aziraphale only raised his eyebrows, gave up on the impossibly tight pants leg, and started pulling the sock off at the toes.   
“Loo...erk!” said Crowley, as Aziraphale’s finger brushed against his sole as the sock came off, and his knee rose a few inches in a compulsive twitch. “Honestly, it’s no - othing,” his voice breaking over the sensation of fingers placed gently on his arch. 

He winced, and pled, but Aziraphale only repeated “tell me, and it stops.” He wiggled and wriggled and his knees and elbows did the most ungraceful of dances - worse than his actual dancing at any rate - and Aziraphale only held on and stroked along the center line of Crowley’s foot until they both ended up on the floor in front of the couch (Crowley really wasn’t sure how that happened), both laughing (Crowley really wasn’t sure how that happened, since he obviously hated being tickled), and Crowley shrieked “I’m not going! Agh! Azzz… to! Yeeeeek! Waste a miracaaaaaallle on eeeef! Keeping mysehhhlf from pissing on the carpet if you keep go - aaaa - ing!” and the sensation was like fireworks along his nerve endings, until, breathlessly, he conceded “Oy! OK! Alright, you bastard!”  
Aziraphale stopped tickling, but did not release his hold on Crowley’s ankle. “Are you ready to talk, foul demon?” he asked, eyes twinkling merrily in the fairy-light spangled parlor.   
“Foul! You - you’re the one who has been tormenting me, you you… bad angel!”  
Aziraphale smirked, cocked his head to the side “a bad angel, for torturing a demon? Are you quite sure? Now you, on the other hand, are holding back. And you’re interrupting my novel with your pointless brooding...”  
“I don’t brood!” complained Crowley. “And it’s not pointless!”  
Aziraphale chuckled - a full on merry-as-plum-pudding kind of chuckle - and repositioned Crowley’s foot, ready to recommence tickling. Crowley knew a threat when he saw it.  
“Fine. Fine! But let go of my foot first,” he whined.   
“I suppose I can always get it back if I have to. So. Talk, foul fiend.”  
“It’s just…” and Aziraphale’s whole demeanor softened as Crowley began, clearly anxious. Crowley doubted he even knew. “It’s just you didn’t say…” why did his throat feel so hot? Too close to the fire? He tried to clear it. “Earlier, when I asked… you didn’t, ah… exactly say...” Really, what was wrong with his throat, he wondered.  
“I didn’t say - oh! Earlier? With the rings?”  
Crowley’s Adam’s apple took a few trips, probably to the stratosphere and back, before he gave up and just nodded.  
Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed in thought, and then he let out a quiet “oh!” and “Oh my dear, you need me to say yes?”  
“I wouldn’t say need, as such, angel, that’s a bit…”  
“Yes,” interrupted Aziraphale. “Yes, you buffoon, you idiot, yes. Obviously. Now come here and kiss me or I’ll start tickling you again.”  
And what else could Crowley do but what his angel bade him?


	11. Pine, or It's So Easy to Make Crowley Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: caroling.

“We don’t live in Narnia, Aziraphale. We live in England. Our… friends… don’t exactly live in the arctic circle or on a mountainside either, you know.” Crowley idly ran his fingers along the edges of several cards displayed in a rack, deliberately and permanently bending several edges.

“What does that have to do with anything?” huffed Aziraphale. 

“Well, I mean - those cards don’t look anything like our winter does.” 

“That’s not the point at all. Of course you’re not much of a correspondent, so you wouldn’t know.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up at the barb. “Excuse me?”

Undaunted, Aziraphale continued “the point is to send out cards that include everyone, dear, regardless of their beliefs, but still look…seasonal. And it’s so much easier just to have the one kind, when I have so many notes to write, and after the events of the summer, there are ever so many people to thank, don’t you think?”

“But… we know already who’s in charge of all of this anyway - aren’t you supposed to make it clear for them or something?” It was an old argument, observed for form’s sake only. One doesn’t simply turn from adversary to lover without a few lingering habits. 

“Nonsense. There’s no point if they don’t figure it out for themselves. I would have imagined that Adam’s choices made that clear.”

Nonchalant, Crowley only shrugged in acquiescence. 

“As I was saying, the point is to be inclusive of all our friends’ beliefs. Especially since we didn’t exactly ask them all on the airfield.” 

“Oh yeah, that would go over smashingly. ‘Hey, before the world ends, could everyone group themselves by belief system? When you’re done, there will be no prizes for everyone who was most right because the bloody world will have ended.’”

Aziraphale barely held back a chuckle. “Precisely, dear boy. So… pine trees?”

“Agh, fine. And with snow, even. How many do we need?” Crowley focused on the display of card sets that Aziraphale had been examining.

“Oh, I have enough already,” he said, with three boxes of cards tucked under his arm. “But do tell how you learned about Narnia if you don’t read books?” 

“I watched the movies,” said Crowley breezily.

“Crowley! Those movies are terrible. The books are so much better.”

“I know - I commissioned them, so I would know what everyone else who read 

that book about the cat and the furniture would know.”

As one, they drifted towards the checkout, Aziraphale barely perceptibly in the lead, Crowley following inexorably at his elbow. 

“The cat and the… you can’t mean The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”

“I can’t? See, this is what comes of being honest.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps I could read them to you?” asked Aziraphale. 

“You know I fall asleep when you read aloud”

“That’s quite alright. I’ll mark your place when you’ve obviously drifted off.” 

“It will take ages to get through any of them that way,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale set the cards down on the conveyor belt. “Mmm. Good thing we have all the time in the world, then.”

Crowley blinked rapidly, looking up at the greenery over the shop’s exit, and managed a sound of agreement.

Aziraphale, with a lingering smile, warmly greeted the clerk, asking after her children, any holiday plans. Mercy is within the purview of angels, even if it isn’t customarily offered to demons.


	12. Caroling, or Aziraphale is That Way on Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale chat about the best Christmas movie of all time.

They were snuggled together on the couch, watching Crowley’s favorite Christmas movie, though it had taken three of Aziraphale’s best bottles to pry the information out of him months before, over a discussion of where the idea of Christmas in July came from. 

A heat wave had settled over London and the only thing keeping the bookshop comfortable had been Crowley’s injudicious use of miracles on Aziraphale’s sole floor fan. Crowley never minded the heat; he just settled in somewhere to bask, but it made the angel tetchy. In winter, at least Aziraphale believed in keeping the shop warm, driven by his innate hedonism, no doubt. 

“Tell me again why the rat is going a wassailing?”

“Angel, there’s so much wrong with that I don’t know where to start. It’s… did you just… did you just say a wassailing? Nobody. Nobody says that anymore, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale huffed, complaining “then why are they still singing that song?” 

Crowley ignored this preposterous addition and scoffed “and honestly… are you telling me that you’ve never seen The Muppets?”

“Dearest, do tell me how long we’ve known each other. “

Crowley just raised an eyebrow. “Are we counting in years, or millennia?”

“Precisely. And in all that time, how long have I owned a television set?”

“What? You haven….. Ah.” 

“Precisely.” 

“Well, you could have watched it at a… a friend’s” and then stopped. 

“Crowley, when did we ever watch the telly?”

“Um.”

“Exactly.”

Now lean back and stop craning around at me. The rat…” 

“…bunny,” Crowley interjected automatically. 

“…has stopped singing, and I want to know what happens next.”


	13. Wrapping Paper, or Crowley Opts Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are so many ways to avoid things when you can shape change.

"Hey! Angel! I’m home!" Crowley set his shopping down on the kitchen flagstones.   
"Where’d he fuss off to, he murmured to himself," after a quick tour of the cottage revealed only an Aziraphale-influenced mess, but no Aziraphale. 

He leafed carefully through the mess on Aziraphale’s desk, looking for a note. Aziraphale always left a note, and always on his writing desk, but not, as they had discovered in their first weeks living together, on top. A Very Petulant Angel had returned home late one evening, static electricity crackling as he doffed his coat and snapping as he made contact with the doorknob to close the door - neatly, briskly, and meticulously sharp. His words snapped and crackled too when Crowley asked him what was wrong. 

After a bewildering conversation that left Crowley wondering how such a display of patience hadn’t granted him a return to heaven’s graces, they had a good laugh about the maitre’d’s sympathy. A good bit of brandy later, while nibbling on the boxed up cake the maitre'd had insisted he take home, Aziraphale made it clear that he kept his private correspondence where nobody would stumble upon it accidentally. 

So Crowley had gotten used to shuffling through piles whenever his angel went missing, and held off the fear that no note immediately in evidence meant something horrid had happened. This time, upon identifying Aziraphale's note, his anxiety changed shape rapidly into something more like a twist of irritation, and so did he.

Hours later, Aziraphale came home, called for Crowley, and getting no answer, looked for a note on his desk - surely written on the back of his own. Suspicious, rather than anxious, he searched the house. He stepped softly and deliberately, hoping to find his quarry asleep somewhere.

He was starting to suspect he'd have to go to the party minus his plus one until he heard a light, crisp rustling. Turning slowly on his heel, he saw a tail disappear into a fold of wrapping paper.

"Crowley. CROWLEY. This is not the way to get out of the party," huffed Aziraphale.


	14. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: eggnog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no drinking in this fic, but an angel and a demon do make eggnog and it has a LOT of alcohol in it. So. alcohol cw.

"That can’t be right."  
"What can’t be right?"  
"The recipe really calls for that much sugar?"   
"Oh yes."  
"...and a whole liter of bourbon?"   
"Oh, most definitely."   
"...and rum?"  
"Yes, of course."   
"...are you adding cognac too?"  
"Aziraphale, you have made this before, haven’t you?"  
"Mmm, mhm."   
"I learned it from one of the lads in the club."  
"What?!"  
"What isn’t making sense, dear?"  
"What lads? What club?"  
"Oh, the gentleman’s club - from when you were having a bit of a pity nap."  
"Pity nap! That's rich, coming from an angel who pouts if there isn't the right amount of brulee on his creme brulee... And how much cream did you just put in that?"  
"The right amount."   
"It can't be."   
"Oh?"  
"Wait, and is that an entire dozen egg yolks?"  
"Dear boy, maybe you do need a nap if you keep insisting on asking me such obvious things. This is simply how eggnog is made."   
"When will it be ready?"  
"Tomorrow at the earliest, and I thought you were complaining about the recipe. Now you're impatient for it to be ready?"   
"Well. It does smell good. A bit. A bit good."   
"A bit good." Aziraphale scoffed.   
"Why the wait? Angelic restraint? Got something to prove after all your excesses?"  
"Hmph. It needs time to mature."   
"Won’t it go bad?" Crowley asked, leaning close enough to the pot that Aziraphale batted at him to nudge him back a bit.   
"Not with all that alcohol in it - in fact it needs a few days, well, there are some arguments about how long it takes for the alcohol to kill any potential bacteria on the eggs - salmonella, in particular - although concerns about raw egg are probably overrated anyway and unless one is immunocompromised, they’re unlikely to make one seriously ill. Though I wouldn't fancy taking the risk."  
"Aziraphale, really? We aren’t human. Salmonella isn’t a thing. Not for us."   
"What do you know? You barely eat. I certainly don't wish to explain to Gabriel why I had to spend a miracle to resolve a particularly nasty case of the trots, but if you wish to try that with Beelzebub..." he said, and, looking up from his whisking, raised an eyebrow in challenge.   
"Ugh. Fine. Fine, whatever. Tomorrow." But he eyed the velvetly liquid, considering.  
"It will be even better in a few days, you know. Perfectly scrumptious with a bit of nutmeg grated on top. Maybe a touch of whipped cream," he said, with a rapturous expression.  
"You know..."  
"What?"  
"You know what it looks like?"  
Aziraphale sighed. "What?"  
"It looks like your coat."  
"Really, don't be ridiculous. And don't lean over it so far. You'll get hair in it."  
"I won't!"  
"You might."  
"It does too look like your coat - it's the same color. And you could always take a hair out. It's not like it would dissolve in there."  
Aziraphale grumbled.   
"Nothing's going to survive long in that brew anyway. Too much alcohol."  
"Fair enough," he said, after decanting eggnog into two glass pitchers and sealing on their lids.  
"Are you done now?"  
"Why?"   
"Because," Crowley said, and he slunk behind Aziraphale, slid his arms around his softly rounded waist, "it's late."  
"Dear boy, we don't need sleep."  
"I'm counting on it," murmured Crowley close to an ear that flushed pink at the tip. 

If you want to make your own eggnog, here's the recipe I used for reference. I can't comment on its deliciousness, but the richness is evident!   
http://ruhlman.com/2016/11/01/plan-ahead-30-day-eggnog/


	15. Laughing, or Crowley's Soft Spot for Mischief Makers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least the bird is happy. Everyone else is busy or grumpy or damp (but it's OK - they're still in love).

Crowley sprawled on the park bench, wiggling too-chilly toes in his mud-spattered boots. Grimacing, he wondered if it was worth doing anything about it when they'd only get dirty again as soon as he slunk home again. Home. When, exactly had the bookshop become home? 

Well, it wasn't today. Not with Aziraphale snapping at him every time he so much as breathed. Aziraphale had been at his ancient PC for hours, straight-backed and fully absorbed in not-Crowley. Crowley had lurked (he had practice), and loomed (his height made it easy), and had settled in to brood (he thought he could get away with it), when Aziraphale finally complained about his breathing, of all things.

"I do not object to your breathing, Crowley. You are sighing. Exhaling with excessive feeling. Breathing out your dismay - loudly - when I told you I need to concentrate. I have a reputation to uphold." 

"You've been doing this shit for hours..."

"Language!"

"I am using language. And anyway there's nobody else here, so who am I watching my language for? You closed your shop so you could do this ridiculous exercise in pretending to be a mortal...capitalist." 

Crowley knew this wasn't true - hard to be a capitalist if you refuse to sell anything to profit off of, but he had that itchy feeling all over. In his snake form, it always meant it was time to bite or shed or mate and in his human form, well... maybe it didn't matter much what form he was in when he felt this way. 

"Really, coming from you - a capitalist? What are you going to do next, accuse me of being a member of the bourgeoisie?"

The spat hadn't lasted much longer, completely failing to scratch his itch before Crowley was sighing dramatically and reaching for his jacket. 

And now here he was. Jacket? Damp. Shoes? Damp. Spirits? Sodding sodden. 

He shifted his ankle, re-crossing his legs, and felt his pants stick and unstick from his thigh in the process. A little shiver trailed up the base of his spine in a stray breeze. 

He muttered "Stupid angel, serve you right if I catch a cold and sneeze all over your precious books, can't believe you would prefer to..." but he stopped mid-rant when he heard children's laughter coming from... was it coming from above him? He glanced up, catching two fat drops of collected rain off a slanting leaf directly onto the middle of a smoky lens. There couldn't be any children in that tree - it was raining in London and parents didn't let kids go out in the rain or on their own or down the block anymore if they could help it. Time was, he couldn't walk down the street without catch a kid throwing rocks (and give tips on form, if his killjoy angel wasn't around). A few years ago, he'd had to introduce the idea of free-range parenting as a proposal to hell; with luck, they'd never figure out that children messing about and getting in trouble outside without supervision was actually good for the wee brats. 

And then the tree giggled again. Crowley dragged his sunglasses off his face, shook off the offending drops of water, looked up, and saw a flash of white set off against black wings. A magpie? Ah, and then he heard the sound again, creepier still now that it was coming from the magpie's beak. "Oy, laughing at me, eh? Fine, fine. Now even the birds laugh at me." The laugh continued, an exact replica of the one that caught his attention before. "Spooky git," he grumbled, "won't even let me think in peace." He rose to leave, and stalked away down the path. The laughing became, if possible, louder, even as it receded behind him, until with a click and a snap and a pause, it was gone. 

_____

The runner who came upon the bench a few moments later found her usual spot to rest occupied by a magpie gorging itself on... were those worms? Stomach turned, she clapped a hand to her mouth, let out a breath slowly to steady herself, and eased back into a quick walk. Behind her, the magpie snatched another mealworm, biting it neatly before it had a chance to wriggle away, and swallowed it down joyfully, then cried her raucous delight to the empty park.


	16. Reindeer, or The Gift for the Angel Who Has Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes up with a gift for the angel who has everything he already wants. Unrepentant tooth rotting fluff ensues.

"Get your coat, angel. I want to take you somewhere special."

"Right now?" asked Aziraphale absently, turning the page. 

"No - sometime in the next three hours. Yes, now." 

"Charming, dear, that sounds lovely," he murmured, picking up his pen to make a note on the journal at his right hand.

"Oh, fine," Crowley groused, and went to collect Aziraphale's warmest coat and stand over him until his infuriating partner noticed.

Aziraphale, seeing Crowley's expression and the coat held out for him, simply tucked in bookmark and ribbon to novel and journal and shrugged into his coat, then turned towards the door. But Crowley put a hand on his arm. "Oh, we're not going that way." 

"That's where the door is, Crowley. That is how we go out."

"I know that. Agh. But we're traveling... more efficiently," he said, gesturing with a silent snap. 

"...with a miracle? Is that a good idea?" 

"We’ve been so careful, I’m sure this one will be fine. And anyway it's not like you to be so... abstinent." 

Aziraphale side-eyed his demon and hummed, consideringly. 

"Trust me, angel?"

Crowley immediately regretted asking, on hearing the softly-voiced "Always." Someday those ethereal blue eyes were going to stop his corporation's heart and the trauma of the paperwork would only be outdone by trying to explain to Beelzebub what had killed him. 

Crowley tucked his arm into the crook of Aziraphale's, took his hand in his own, and with the other, snapped. 

Aziraphale blinked, taking in the sudden brightness of a landscape glittering white and blue, accented by glinting sharp mountain peaks in the distance. "Where are we?"

"A bit north-ish." 

"A bit? We're up to our knees in snow." 

"Ah, yes!" Crowley snapped his fingers again and in the next moment, Aziraphale was wiggling his toes in boots lined with thick soft wool. "Oh, these are nice."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a sidelong glance, a half-smile forming, and asked "You know what else is nic..." 

"Reindeer!" Crowley interrupted. 

"Well, yes, but that's not what I was about to say. You know what else is..."

"Angel, look - reindeer!" said Crowley, and with a desperate bid to forestall Aziraphale in his pursuit of labeling him with four-letter words, gently grabbed him around his lovely soft middle and rotated him to face a small group of unusually short reindeer.

"Oh! Oh, they're precious. They look so soft!" exclaimed Aziraphale, and turning his head to the side, asked "Are they soft?"

"I don't know, why don't we go find out?"

"Are they... friendly?"

"You're an angel, aren't you? All the creatures of the field and whatnot..."

"Oh. Right. There just... there aren't so very many beasts in fields about London these days, you know. Not... many at all. Except the ducks. And the pigeons. And some dogs, I suppose, and those aren't always nice, you know and..." 

Crowley cut him off. "Are you. You're not." Crowley noticed Aziraphale's smile was faltering and asked "You're not nervous, are you?" And in response to Aziraphale's pause and darting look, offered "Nevermind that. Let's go see together, hmm?"

Fortunately, snakes never have ventured into reindeer territory much, so the stocky, cream-soft creatures weren't bothered at all by Crowley's presence, and if a little miracle made their not-quite-human guests especially tolerable, well, who would even know?   
Crowley produced a large pile of sweet smelling dried grasses that kept the small herd milling about them, placidly munching. He and Aziraphale stroked their thick fur, and Crowley tried not to look too closely at Aziraphale's dewy eyed adoration of the smallest of the herd. 

"How on Earth did you think of this as a gift?" asked Aziraphale, fingers sunk deep into the young reindeer's creamy fur. 

"Well, you saw them in that documentary the other day."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I told you I was resting my eyes."

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows.

"Well, and I was resting my ears too, until you cooed like you were being presented with the dessert cart of your dreams."

"Pish." 

"And you said you couldn't wish for anything this year, but I just had to give you something." 

"Dear, I never see you but you have a gift in hand." 

"Well, yeah. Sure. Food. Fsssh."

"Oh come here, you. You look chilly," insisted the angel, and he opened his arms for Crowley to curl his back against Aziraphale's warm, soft bulk. He wrapped up his gangly man-shaped being and rested his chin on the black-clad shoulder with a comfortable sigh. 

Crowley didn't feel unexpected warmth pricking at the edge of his eyes. He surely didn't. It was just the bright light reflecting off the snow. Or maybe he was allergic to reindeer.


	17. Gift, or Adam's Little Additions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gift
> 
> Aziraphale is an irritable bastard and Adam has a sense of humor (though Adam is not present in the fic).

"And isn't it ironiiiiiic!" came belting out from the back room. 

Loudly. 

And out of tune. 

And for the twentieth time, at least. 

Aziraphale loved Crowley. He knew he did. And they had an arrangement - no, had moved on from that arrangement, months ago. They were partners now - wasn't that the modern term? Although Warlock, who had taken to sending cards on holidays and stopping by for tea now and again, just called them husbands, which privately Aziraphale liked. He was too old fashioned for "partner," and really it was far too ambiguous. He wouldn't dream of nitpicking someone else who chose to call their beloved a "partner," but millennia of reading and writing didn't predispose him to put up with imprecise word choice. 

This afternoon, his many years of reading under diverse and not entirely congenial circumstances hadn't been doing him much good. Crowley had been playing some electronic arcade game on his mobile, while his blueteeth - it was blueteeth, right? - personal headphones blasted infernal be-bop. Crowley insisted it was "alternative," though Aziraphale couldn't imagine how awful the music would have to be to need that alternative, nor how personal headphones could be so audible to innocent bystanders. 

And it wasn't Crowley's fault that he couldn't sing in tune. No, of course not. Nor Aziraphale's that he had perfect pitch - how else to sing in an ethereal choir? So, after four hours of trying, in vain, to read quietly, and the total failure of audible sighs to modify Crowley's behavior, Aziraphale had decided to give up and go hunting for the holiday accoutrements. There were more convenient means at his disposal for accessing boxes tucked into the bookshop's attic storage, but none that gave him such a convenient excuse for leaving his ah... surely very lovable... husband to his own noisy devices for a little while. 

He'd tugged a few boxes out of the way, clouds of dust rising in their wake, to get to the box labeled "Festive decor 2 of 3" and a bit more work uncovered one out of three and three of three. He pulled all of them out into a somewhat clearer space and, straining, could yet make out some dissonant keening from downstairs. 

Perhaps it was best to sort through what he wanted to use up here, dusty or not. Neatly stored glass balls, ready to grace an evergreen, he set aside to use. Exquisitely embroidered runners that he rarely displayed, as they'd require clearing books off of surfaces, were tucked back into a corner of their box. An inflatable Santa with a beer can in hand, from one of Crowley's trips to the States, tape and tabs still intact. A collection of silver candlesticks, ornamented with a delicate tracery of holly and ivy motifs joined the pile for display. 

One box within a box held a number of clay oil lamps. "Oh dear, I missed Diwali again this year. I really must do better with time," he mused, closing the box back up. He lifted out a hand carved nativity scene, whose members and appearance had rather confused the artist Aziraphale commissioned it from. Even now nativity scenes tended to be unrealistic - not just in their understanding of what a manger looked like, but who would have been in attendance at the birth. The craftsman had been particularly bewildered about Aziraphale's insistence on the presence of so many women. "Why would they need so many women at the birth of our Lord," he had asked in dismay, and Aziraphale only scoffed, and decided he was best off painting them himself, lest the woodcarver insist upon inaccuracies in complexion as well. 

He pawed through the third box with growing concern. He found the antique seder plate, still polished from recent use, and a garish string of skulls and jack-o'-lanterns (also Crowley's contribution, though these had clearly seen use, as they'd probably need a miracle to untangle). 

Where was it? Chanukah was nearly arrived and although most of the shop had been put to rights by Adam, a few things outside his understanding and experience had gone missing. The wine cellar a notable exception. But there! At the bottom of the last box, a glint of brassy gold - that had to be it. He nudged some other items to the side and dug in, pulling out a... well. He supposed it was still a menorah, but a half-choked sound rose unbidden from him, hysterical and sharp. He clapped a hand to his mouth and moaned. 

In the distance, he heard rapid footsteps, increasing to a staccato pounding as it became clear that Crowley's noise-canceling headphones were unusually selective. Breathless, waxen-faced, Crowley grabbed the doorframe, and gasped out "Angel! What is it?"

Thoroughly uncertain about the dinosaur-shaped object in his hands, or what his voice would sound like, Aziraphale craned his head back to reassure Crowley, giving him a good view of Aziraphale's shocked face as well as the heavy brass object cradled against his chest. Relief and irritation warred in his black-clad breast, until a snicker slipped out between the two and suddenly he was holding the doorframe breathless with wheezing laughter, pointing helplessly at the brass T-rex with space for eight candles. 

Aziraphale huffed.

"Oh, Adam, you've outdone yourself this time," said Crowley, howling with laughter. "That's brilliant," he managed between wheezes. "Do tell me you're keeping it."

"You should know that this appears to have replaced an heirloom, you know."

Crowley just sniggered, one hand clutched to his chest, eyes streaming. 

"Of course I could replace it, but it's the principle of the thing." In spite of himself, the corner of Aziraphale's eye twitched. 

Crowley, never particularly good at standing straight up, always a question mark in human shape, was bent nearly in half, chest shaking, his palm smacking the doorframe in emphasis. 

Aziraphale's mouth curved, the traitorous thing. 

Crowley's knees gave in as he folded, shrieking with laughter, to the floor, just behind Aziraphale. 

Laughter snuck in with Aziraphale's next breath, like an infectious disease, and he cracked, loosing a warm chuckle, then a round guffaw, and in moments he, too, had tears running down his face. 

Once they could both breathe again - not strictly necessary, but useful for speech, and had overcome a fresh bout of laughter when Crowley explained that it was called a menorahsaurus rex, Aziraphale opined "I guess it's a gift, like all the rest of it, even if it is a dinosaur?" and Crowley agreed, though noted "it is, it really is. Though not the best one, by far."

Aziraphale, still reeling from their hysterics, wrinkled his brow in inquiry. 

"You, you idiot," sighed Crowley. "Or - us. That's the best gift."

And Aziraphale, cheekbones bright from laughter, leaned in to show Crowley how thoroughly he agreed.


	18. Ghosts, or Aziraphale Has Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 23: Ghosts  
> Aziraphale has trouble sleeping. Crowley tries to help, but Aziraphale if you're going to wake Crowley in the middle of the night with your moping, he's going to be a little tetchy too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has some light angst, and light Christian references. Maybe, just barely, this qualifies as hurt/comfort?

He had been slipping through the cool river, between the rushes and the stones, slithering sinuous through the shadowy shallows, and up to his favorite rock to bask. But he found only chill mud where sun-baked rock should be.

Crowley surfaced from his dream to find the bed slowly cooling, absent one cozy, ethereal being. He took a deliberate, slow breath, sucking down the instinctive panic that his husband had finally come to his senses and left. Pulled on a robe instead, dark and liquid in the faint glow from behind the window shades, before searching out his erstwhile bedmate. 

He found Aziraphale hunched round-shouldered, curled over a mass market paperback. His softness made a sharp contrast against the kitchen’s flat planes and angles, even in the dim light. “Can’t sleep, angel?”

Aziraphale startled. “Did I wake you? I did try to be quiet.”

“Yeah, all that page flipping you’re doing from two rooms away woke me right up.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, dear. Thought my tossing about would wake you. I suppose this isn’t any better, is it?”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley clarified “Nah, just got cold without you."

Aziraphale hummed disapprovingly.

Crowley had an infuriating urge to kiss that prim, grumbling mouth. "So why are you sitting here reading…” and he leaned in to flip the book closed to get a look at the cover, “The Da Vinci Code, of all things, in the kitchen at 2:30am?”

Aziraphale grimaced at the book, re-opened it automatically, and looked up to Crowley. “Oh, nothing. Just couldn’t sleep. I thought, perhaps a little light reading.”

“And you’ve been getting so good at it, too.”

“Reading?” asked Aziraphale, bristling. “I’ll have you know I…”

“No, not reading,” Crowley interrupted. “At sleeping; you seem to be getting the hang of it.”

“Oh, yes. Yes.” Aziraphale’s smile faded, flipping absently through the pages to find his place. 

Crowley stood at his shoulder, and struggled to find the pockets in his robe. “Tea?”

“Mmm?” Aziraphale was scanning one page after another.

“Would you…

“Mhm, mhm...”

“Oy! Principality of mine, are you listening?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s head jerked up. Crowley almost felt badly for using his title to get his attention. Almost. “Yes, yes, I’m listening, dear.”

“Do you want some tea?" 

"No, I’m alright, thank you." 

No tea? It really is serious, thought Crowley. Only one thing to do. He clattered around in the cupboard to collect one mug and found the other in the dishwasher. Reached for the tin of tea without looking, and dropped a bag into a handmade mug, golden as his eyes and with deep grooves from the potter’s fingertips. He let the string and tag fall to the bottom, shrugged, and rummaged in a cupboard over the sink for the glass jar of meticulously chopped chocolate. Crowley thought about telling Aziraphale that he could just purchase drinking chocolate these days, while he gathered milk, pan and whisk and set the kettle on.

A glance behind him showed Aziraphale still slumped, book held open with one hand while he stared out the window. He knew Aziraphale’s tendency to curl in on himself. He’d learned this - to quietly retreat into his pain, over long centuries of hiding from Heaven’s censure, rather than risk openly seeking comfort from anyone, especially a demon. The habit had probably saved him a load of trouble - maybe both of them, even, but it still stung. 

Aziraphale sniffed the air and glanced up briefly at the sound of Crowley’s vigorous whisking. "Something on the hob? Is that,” sniffing again “cocoa?" 

"No, it’s creme anglaise… Of course it’s cocoa. You’re awake and miserable and it’s almost gone three. What else would it be?” And with a deft, practiced pour, Crowley filled the winged mug almost to the brim, before splashing a tot of whiskey in and rather more into his tea. 

“I like creme anglaise." 

Crowley sighed, carrying the mugs to the table, and settled into the chair across from Aziraphale. He pushed the least practical one across to nudge Aziraphale’s book. "I don’t know how you drink out of that awful thing." 

Aziraphale deftly grasped the mug around the wings and took a sip of cocoa, some tension melting out of his shoulders. "Oh, that’s nice." 

"So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale darted a look at Crowley’s face and then back down at his cocoa. “Mm.”

“Aziraphale." 

"I don’t know.”

Crowley decided this counted as progress, and just sipped on his tea. 

“It’s nothing. Only memories. Ghosts. I suppose it’s the time of year.“

Crowley considered. “The time of year?”

“In a manner of speaking. The season, anyway” Aziraphale’s cocoa was rapidly disappearing. It usually did.

“Are you all maudlin about Christmas?” Crowley asked, ending on a hiss.

“Mmm. Christmas.”

“Really." 

"Really what?”

“Would you stop being a git and just tell me what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I just think about him at this time of year.”

“Him?” Crowley took a deep swig of his tea, and tried to imagine what particular man Aziraphale would be fussing about this time of year. “Him. Oh… him! But, he wasn’t even born in the winter. That was just more propaganda to sort out that little problem of heathen celebrations.”

“True, but it’s everywhere. His name - in everything. I can’t help but regret…”

“It’s been two millennia. Over two." 

"Have you found an expiration date for sorrow, darling?” Aziraphale leveled a gaze with eyebrow raised at Crowley. 

“Well, no, but did you even really know him?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped lower as he sighed and shook his head. 

“Well, I did. And I’m not wallowing." 

"I’m not…” Aziraphale huffed “I’m not wallowing!”

Crowley returned Aziraphale’s complaint with a skeptical look. 

“Fine, fine. Maybe - maybe you have a point. And really, I think that’s part of what’s bothering me.”

“What is?”

“That I didn’t, didn’t really get to know him. Now there’s all this…” Aziraphale gestured vaguely to the window, twinkling lights scattered around the street below them in the foggy dark “…still going on millennia later, ostensibly in his name, and I never even had a drink with him. He was hers, and I…”

“He wasn’t the only child of hers to show up here for a bit, you know.”

“I know.”

“Obviously you know. Probably got the same memos, just on different letterhead. Chr- ah… give yourself a break. You believed them. Of course you did - all their holier than thou bullshit and their trust in the plan and have faith crap. It’s not your fault you wanted to think that angels are better than they are.” Privately, Crowley thought that if heaven had deserved Aziraphale’s confidence, it would be a far better world. Might be a meaningful difference between their sides, to start.

“I’m sorry, did you get out of bed to comfort me? Or to critique heaven and all its angels, myself included?”

“Agh. I’m not… They - did you forget that they tried to kill you?”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“They sure tried.”

“Well… well, oh. I don’t know,” Aziraphale trailed off. “You knew him, though, didn’t you?”

“Wait, who?” Crowley was thrown off by their near detour into an old argument. 

“The young man, before he… before he died.”

“Excuse me, do you mean Jesus? Did you just call Her son ‘young man?’”

“Wasn’t he?”

“Only as much as you’re an ol…” and thinking better of it, amended “a man.”

“You told me once that you showed him the world?” They’d both had a few thousand years to learn to disregard each other’s missteps. 

“What of it?”

“You never told me why you did it. Why you took the time to get to know him?”

“I’m sure I said.”

“You did no such thing.”

This is what comes of being nice, thought Crowley, folding his arms over his chest. He really ought to have just stayed in bed. “What are you asking me, angel?" 

"Well, why did you do it?”

“Does it matter? As you pointed out, he’s dead. Or with God Or… whatever. It’s probably ineffable.” The last word came out as a slur. 

"Nevermind. You don’t have to tell me.”

Crowley sighed, pressed his hands up against the table edge and leaned back precariously on two chair legs. “Fine. What do you want to know again?" 

"Why did you spend so much time with him?”

Crowley paused to consider. “I guess. I guess he reminded me of Her.”

“Like… oh… like Her?”

“Yeah.” Crowley loosed a bitter laugh, let the chair’s front legs fall to the floor, metal on stone reverberating through him. 

“Oh.”

“Except he was…” Crowley searched for the right word. 

“Less?”

Crowley hissed “Lessss? Never. He was better than Her,” and added fiercely “Much better.”

“That… really? How could he be better?”

“Being around him felt like being with Her used to be - is supposed to be. He really did, you know,” and Crowley struggled for the word until he saw it reflected across from him, “he really loved. Just - loved everyone. It wasn’t a game for him, one great gamble." 

"She doesn’t play dice with us, you know that.”

“Maybe not, but you know from where she sits we’re all just pawns. Or worse, variables. Can the scientist love his lab rats?”

“Ah…”

“Exactly.”

“But not him, though?” Aziraphale’s voice had turned soft, almost wistful. “From him, you felt…”

“Love. Yeah. Just… just love.” He didn’t say ‘even for me,’ out loud. He didn’t have to. 

Aziraphale stared at his nearly empty mug, while Crowley gazed out the window at a lone car traveling away into the night. 

“He wasn’t all soft and lovely though,” mused Crowley. “Had a nasty temper on him sometimes.”

“Really?”

“All those bibles and you don’t rem…”

“Oh! The moneylenders. No, no I suppose he wasn’t all love. Hazard of the corporation I suppose.”

“Like Hell, angel. That’s love too. Fighting for something, feeling that rage and despair but doing something, anything you can do, even though you’re already running on fumes, the world going up in flames, just so that you can try to fix it so that you can be with the one who, I mean help everyone…” Crowley trailed off, looking down at the hand Aziraphale had twined in his and up into his eyes gone soft around the edges. Crowley blinked rapidly. He must have something in his eyes. Dust, probably. Needed one of those robot vacuums or something.

“I love you too, darling.”

And when they kissed, the tannic bite of tea and whiskey mingled with sweet, rich chocolate on their tongues.

**Author's Note:**

> I have also made little illustrations for them, viewable at my Tumblr, eunyisadoran. Searching for the 31 days of ineffables tag will bring them up, along with some other lovely contributions for the challenge.


End file.
